Chapter Thirteen

“With all due respect, I strongly disagree.” Mr. Finchley had imbibed one too many snifters of brandy following dinner and had no idea the dangerous ground upon which he trod. “Imposing such a tax will do more harm for business owners than good for the employees.”

Ethan stood against the carved marble hearth, one arm slung across the mantle as his cold eyes were fixed over his guest’s shoulder. Juliette knew her brother was making a valiant attempt to avoid calling Mr. Finchley any number of creative names. Having made their fortune in textiles thanks to an innovative production method, the Finchleys were considered “New Money” in London. Juliette could see how this might influence Mr. Finchley’s opinions of taxation on certain exports, but that did not stop him from being wrong. Dead wrong. Juliette had heard her brother practicing his address to Parliament enough times to quote the proposed tax. It was intended to place more money where it was most needed: In the hands of the families who worked the farms and raised the sheep, those who processed the wool and helped in the various stages of textile production. Her brother was known for his fiery oration and occasionally incendiary opinions in government, he could infuriate her when he attempted to control her life, but she knew he was a good man who wanted to use his position of power to benefit those who lacked a voice.

“I believe you are missing the point, Mr. Finchley,” Lord Leighton spoke up as Ethan continued to seethe by the hearth.

“And I believe you and Hopesend are missing mine entirely,” replied Mr. Finchley with a fragrant hiccup.

Juliette had to avert her head to avoid an odorous cloud of alcohol-scented words where she sat beside poor, mortified Miss Finchley. The girl was a quiet one, and, unfortunately for her, she was forever thrust into uncomfortable situations by her opinionated, outspoken, shameless parents. They weren’t bad people, simply uncouth.

“Eh, Dr. McCullom,” Mr. Finchley called to Ian across the room; he and Lady Sommerfeld had been listening to the back and forth in silence. Ian tipped his chin to indicate he was listening. “You’re a working man, too. Help me explain to these toffs how awful their tax would be for self-made men such as us.”

Ian’s face grew instantly taut and Juliette could see the discomfort in his gaze. He comported himself remarkably well in these social situations, but it was another thing entirely to be placed on the spot in a potentially contentious situation.

“I am not generally one for politics—”

“Come now,” chuckled Finchley; “no one else here can provide the same perspective.”

A muscle flexed in Ian’s jaw. Ian did not view himself as the same kind of man as Mr. Finchley. He was a man who had clawed his way out of poverty through grit and determination; while Finchley had the benefits of being born English, growing up in a comfortable family, and having the help of hundreds of underpaid hands to grow and expand his business. His business was so profitable that it had all but been handed over into the care of managers and solicitors, so the most strenuous thing Finchley had to do was sign a few papers now and again. He and his family reaped all the benefits. Meanwhile, Ian…Ian subsided on a diet of work and dreams for a better future.

Juliette held her breath, waiting to see how he would respond.

“While I appreciate your estimation of my person as a gentleman, Mr. Finchley, I fear I am technically underqualified for this label and too undereducated in the topic to provide any response worth merit.” Finchley opened his carp-like mouth, but Ian cut him off. “However, having listened to this discussion now for the better part of an hour, I will say that it seems Lord Hopesend’s proposed tax would greatly benefit working-class employees in England.” Ethan’s head turned and his eyes locked onto Ian as he continued to speak. “I am certain this seems selfish having been raised in this class, myself, but I can say with the utmost certainty that taxing businesses to assist the employees will eventually help the businesses, themselves. Giving workers a living wage will allow them to spend back into the economy. They will purchase better food, housing, and medical care—all necessities that far too many Londoners and other Britains lack.”

“And how is this supposed to help the businesses, hm?” Finchley demanded.

“Healthy workers are more productive, are they not? A man who is weakened by hunger or illness cannot possibly move as quickly as one who is well-fed and hale.” Ian tapped his temple. “And he is sharper when his body is well-nourished. Do you, yourself, not think better after a meal?” In response, Finchley crossed his arms over his girth. Juliette saw the corner of her brother’s mouth twitch.

“This is why,” Ian continued as he sat back in his chair; “I have been working to draft a plan to bring better medical care to those more remote regions. The people must still work to survive, but they cannot do so without the right resources available to them.”

“Here, here!” Lord Leighton chimed in with a grin, pleased that Ian was on his side.

“And what might that entail?” Ethan asked so unexpectedly that Juliette nearly jumped.

“For one, a more standardized level of medical care to be taught and spread throughout the country. There is currently no retraining of physicians who cling to the old ways, and they are often more hindrance than help to the patients.” Juliette saw Lady Sommerfeld grip her husband’s hand. It seemed an entire conversation took place in that small gesture. “And it would involve traveling to those remote areas, bringing supplies and medicine, manpower to assist communities in need.”

“And that would require a great deal of funding.” Ethan’s expression was thoughtful, and his eyes danced in contemplation.

“It would; especially because a great many of these regions may not be able to afford the same costs or resources that larger cities might. But these are people all the same, citizens of the Crown, and they all deserve the same respect and dignity afforded to anyone else.”

Unexpected tears pricked the backs of Juliette’s eyes. She’d had no idea the breadth of Ian’s ambitions, and to hear him speak of them so passionately, so confidently, was moving. She instantly thought of what he’d told her about his father and knew from where his inspiration stemmed. He wanted to prevent children from experiencing the pain he had; he wanted to save parents from burying their babies.

How could one man devote his life to others and still wish to give more of himself? Could such a selfless man truly exist?

“Fascinating,” Ethan murmured and the topic was quickly shifted to see who had traveled furthest abroad. Juliette expected it was Ian, but he remained a contentedly quiet observer.

Mr. Finchley became sullen as a child and impatiently requested another brandy from a footman.

∞∞∞

A hand darted out from a doorway just as Ian strode past. He was not, by any means, a diminutive man, but he was caught mid-step and the yank set him off balance. He stumbled to the side and into the darkened room with a grunt of surprise. The door quickly swung shut, plunging him into the shadows.

Blinded by the abrupt shift from the candlelit hallway to darkness, Ian couldn’t possibly know what to expect. His muscles tensed to defend himself…until soft arms wound around his neck, fingers burrowing into his hair, and even softer lips found his in the dark. Instantly, he recognized Juliette’s scent, her taste, the way she felt against him, the small sounds she made when he returned her kiss. Wrapping his arms around her slim waist, he pulled her body flush with his and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. She leaned into him, giving all of herself over to the embrace.

“I couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she breathed against his lips, meeting each one of his nips and caresses with one of her own. My, how quickly she’d improved in this. Not that any of their kisses had been bad, per se, but this confidence was new. And arousing. He had to fight not to grind his hips against hers. God, what he wouldn’t give to taste her again. Their interlude in the library had been transcendent, beyond anything he could have ever imagined. She tasted like honeyed mead and her soft sounds of surrender when she came would no doubt haunt him until his dying days.

His hands drifted lower to the globes of her bottom, pressing her against his rapidly growing length. She sighed when she felt the heat of his arousal pressing against the softness of her abdomen, insistent against the layers of her skirts.

He needed more.

In one swift move, Ian hiked her up into his arms, easily lifting her against him, backing her toward a dark shape that looked vaguely chaise-shaped now that his eyes were adjusting to the poor lighting. She instinctively locked her ankles around his hips and it was impossible for him not to imagine her doing that as he pounded into her, claiming her again and again as his and his alone. It was a stupid, futile thought, but if a man couldn’t fantasize in the throws of passion, then what did he have?

Juliette’s lips trailed along his jaw, pressing hungry, open-mouthed kisses as he lowered her to the cushions. Bracing one leg on the floor and the other knee balanced upon the chaise, he was finally able to achieve the leverage his aching body desired. He rocked against her and her every gasp drove him higher and higher. He could feel the warmth at the crux of her thighs even though the falls of his breeches and her undergarments; the friction of his rock-hard cock against the fabric wasn’t what he desired, but he was so very close to what he wanted most that he almost didn’t care.

Almost.

He nipped her neck, nibbling a trail down to the swells of her perfect, pert breasts. His tongue dipped below the neckline of her dress to tease the edge of her cleavage while he palmed one of her breasts, wondering silently at its excellent fit for him. Juliette arched her back and pressed herself more firmly into his touch when his thumb discovered her pebbled nipple and teased it through the fabric.

“Ian!” she gasped, her hips rotating against him. He happily obliged and used his pelvis to provide a counterpressure to her desperation. The room around them echoed with their sighs and gasps.

Ian wanted to touch her petal-soft flesh. He longed to taste every inch of her. She drove him mad with her coy glances and innocent attempts at seduction. It was time she knew a fraction of what she put him through; of the thoughts that kept him awake and aching long into the night until he finally caved to his baser needs and brought himself to a frustrated, unfulfilled climax.

“You’re wet for me, aren’t you lass?” he ground out. Her trembling fingers stilled in his hair. “Here,” he whispered harshly; “the part of you which aches for me the most. It’s wet with your need, is it not?” He couldn’t make out the details of her features, but he was certain her fair cheeks flushed as they were wont to do. “Touch yourself.” He demanded, desperately needing her to do so—to caress her flesh in a way he dared not, lest he lose all control once and for all. He could live through her or perish waiting.

She hesitated until he took her hand and gently guided it lower between them. Her knuckles brushed his painfully hard arousal and his breath hissed through his teeth. He covered her hand with his. “Here. Tell me how wet you are.” His voice lowered further. “Touch yourself like you do only when you’re alone in the dark. Or soaking in the tub.”

She took a shaky breath and cupped her sex. He sensed the weakening of her resolve and the small movements of her fingers, parting the damp petals, gently, tentatively stroking. When she released a small moan, his body trembled. When she gasped and her pelvis undulated, pressing her against his throbbing cock, he saw stars.

His desire rumbled up from deep within his chest as he pressed his lips to the hammering pulse in her throat. “Tell me,” he commanded.

“I—I can’t,” she whimpered. He could hear her arousal in her voice. She may have been shy, but she was not averse at all to what they were doing.

“You can,” he insisted. “You must because you coerced me into this position, you dragged me into this room, and you know damn well I cannot do all the things I want to do to you.” His accent was as thick and heavy as the heated air between them. She turned her face into his throat. “I want to feel how wet I make you in your most secret of places. I want to taste you there. I want to fill you.” I want to brand you and claim you as mine . He ground against her, pressing her hand more firmly against her body, sliding her fingers deep within her. She gasped and breathed against the hot strip of flesh beneath his jaw and above the edge of his cravat. It was pure torture. He loved and hated it at the same time. “I want to bring you pleasure until everything except my name leaves your mind.” She moaned softly against him; he could feel the back of her hand working more furiously against the front of his breeches.

“Yes,” Juliette breathed, her head falling back to the cushion of the chaise. Her thighs trembled around his hips. Even without touching her directly, he knew her climax was close.

“Are you wet for me?” he demanded.

He felt more than saw her nod.

“Show me.”

She worked her arm and hand back up between them. His nostrils flared with the warm, honeyed scent of her arousal. Ian couldn’t help it, he captured her fingers between his lips and sucked. She squealed in surprise at first, but it quickly melted away and matched his groan of delight as his tongue swirled and savored her nectar. He pressed his aching cock firmly against the moist notch of her sex, thrusting and grinding, cursing every layer of fabric between them, but knowing it was the only thing keeping him from making an irrevocable mistake.

“So delicious,” he growled before catching her mouth with his, continuing his long, firm, languorous thrusts against her body. The hitch in her breathing told him he was hitting just the right angle and he continued onward, relentlessly pursuing both her pleasure and his own.

She clutched at his flexing shoulders and hooked one leg around his hips as best she could with her skirts trapped beneath her body and one of his legs.

“Ian,” she sobbed, and he knew she was just there.

When she shattered beneath him, all grasping hands and trembling limbs, mouth wide in a silent scream, he tumbled after her with three more furious rolls of his hips. His orgasm began in the base of his spine, exploding from him with furious force and flying through his every limb with the most exquisite of agonies.

Eventually, Ian unscrewed his eyes and, when his vision returned as much as it was going to in the dark room, he gazed down at Juliette. There was a glint of an eye, the shadow of a smile, the pale swells of her breasts heaving above the edge of her bodice with her every panting breath.

He’d never done anything like this before, never experienced an orgasm in quite this manner, and by God, it had been glorious. He hardly cared that he’d come in his breeches like a randy lad seeing his first pair of tits. No. All he cared about was the glorious woman reaching up and cautiously cupping his cheek in her palm.

“Oh, Ian,” she sighed.

And he was dangerously content.